


Being Real

by ExyEimi (Siyah_Kedi)



Series: Real [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/ExyEimi
Summary: Andrew can see ghosts.Neil is...





	1. Chapter 1

He is bodiless, and therefore shapeless. He doesn't know what he is, except that he's not what he used to be. He remembers - if the flashes of knowledge that pass through him at odd times can be called memory - being different. Being solid, being  _ real. _ He recalls the scent of the scarlet flower, although he can't remember the name of it.

 

It looks like blood pooled atop the thorny green stem. He remembers blood, too. The sight, the smell, the sound of it dripping onto the floor.

 

The sun is walking down the street. It's odd enough to catch his capricious attention. He follows a little closer than he ought, and realizes it's not the sun after all - it's a man with golden hair. Heat beats off him like a fire. 

 

He hasn't felt heat in… 

 

“Stop following me.” 

 

The man's voice is rough, and for a long moment, confusing. There's no one else on the road, not even traffic. 

 

Then, abruptly, he realizes: the man is talking to  _ him. _

 

He swirls away, alarmed and distorted. 

 

* * *

 

He can't keep track of days. He doesn't know how much time passes, only that it does. Again and again, he returns to the same street. The flower has died, petals drooping and dropping away one by one until there's nothing left. Sometimes he feels like the flower; he wonders if pieces of him are disappearing into the void, falling off and rotting away to nothing. It would explain a lot. 

 

He feels the heat before he sees the man this time. He's just discovered that he can touch things - there's a single petal on the asphalt, brilliant against the dull grey stone. He's hovering, condensed, above it, and reaches out, astonished when he can feel the velvety texture against the nothing that is his existence. 

 

He turns/shifts/folds into the heat from the other side of the street and watches the man cross, a blank expression on his face that does little to hide the irritation he's feeling, given away by the tense set of his shoulders and the way his hand clenches at his side. The other hand is occupied with - something. 

 

It's round, doughy, flaky. There's a smudge of darkness at the edge of the man's lip. 

 

“You again? Go away.” 

 

Ignoring the voice, he drifts closer. 

 

“I said leave me alone,” the man warns. He can't  _ possibly _ be talking to him. He doesn't exist the way this man does. In the world, but not of it. 

The man throws his pastry at him. It passes through him, and he feels it. He  _ feels _ it. It leaves a sticky residue behind somehow. Sweetness surges through him, and with it, the name of the pastry.  _ Doughnut. _

 

“Fuck off,” says the man, irritably, and he dissolves into nothingness. 

 

* * *

 

He coalesces again inside a building. It's sparsely decorated, and clearly someone's home. He's never appeared in a house before. It's startling enough that he nearly implodes, swirling with enough energy to ruffle the pages of a book on the table nearby. 

 

Questions race through him. Where is he? How did he get here?  _ Why _ is he here instead of the park, or the zoo, or the other places he spends what passes for his time. 

 

The door opens and admits the blond man. He stares straight through him, and scowls. 

 

“Seriously?”

 

He cannot reply because he has no words, much less a body to form them. Instead, he projects his overwhelming confusion.

 

The man seems to understand him. “Can’t you find someone else to haunt?”

 

He doesn't know the word 'haunt.’ His confusion increases. 

 

“Fantastic. Of all the ghosts in the world, I get the stupid one.” 

 

Ghost. He knows this word. He tries it out on himself. 

 

_ I am a ghost. _

 

But it's terrifying.  _ Ghost _ implies _ dead. _ He's not dead. He's  _ not _ . 

 

“Life sucks and then you die,” the man says, unhelpfully. “And apparently that sucks too. Better luck next time.” 

 

“Fuck you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment he doesn't know where the noise came from. He needs a body to make noise and he doesn't have one. Tantalizing flickers of memory tease the edge of his mind. But he  _ had _ one. 

 

_ Ghost _ whispers through him. 

 

_ Dead _ echoes a second later. 

 

He implodes, vanishing into the void. It's dark, and comfortable. There's a light somewhere that's getting brighter. It's almost blinding, and he decides he doesn't like it. He wants the dark, the cool and enveloping blackness that is the same Nothing that he is. The light fades, and he finds himself in a new room. A single bed surrounded by machines is the only thing there. He drifts closer and finds a body in the bed. Dark hair lies tousled against the pale skin. He feels...wistful. It's an alarming sensation. 

 

_ Hospital, _ he thinks, and realizes it's true. There's a single red flower making a splash of color against the white bedding, clutched in a motionless hand. Someone comes in behind him, and he almost swirls away before remembering that no one can see him - the strange blond man notwithstanding. The newcomer is wearing a pale green suit that hangs loosely on her frame. She bends down and checks the flower. He feels oddly possessive of it, and wants her to go away. The red flowers are  _ his. _ He can touch them despite his nothingness. 

 

“Aw, someone brought you another rose,” the woman coos. 

 

_ Rose. _ The word triggers a flood of memories. His father's garden, lovingly tended by his mother and a host of gardeners. The bruise blossoming on her cheek like petals unfurling towards the sun. The stain of scarlet across her stomach as she reminds him of the rules. 

 

The rules were meant to save his life, he remembers, and wonders where he fucked up. 

 

The woman is speaking to the body on the bed, but he thinks it's unlikely to respond. 

 

_ Better luck next time. _

 

Those words in that voice… it feels familiar. 

 

_ Fuck you. _

 

He'd said that. Somehow. He drifts closer to the rose and looks down at the body. The same strange wistfulness passes through him. He wonders if it's someone he knew. Before he was dead.

 

He's still having trouble thinking the words to himself, so he forces them into his mind. 

 

_ I'm dead. I  _ **_died_ ** _.  _

 

But how? Was this hell? No, he was a ghost, it was still The World. Reality? He can't remember dying. He doesn't remember living, either.  _ What is real? _

 

_ Better luck next time. _

 

_ That's  _ real. That strange blond man who  _ sees _ him. He wonders what the man's name is. 

 

He wonders what  _ his _ name is. 

 

The body on the bed offers no answers. 

 

* * *

 

Time passes again. He seems to be everywhere the blond man is. The home, spartan and uncluttered. The hospital room. The street. The coffee shop. The man is always alone, it seems, until one day, suddenly, he's not. 

 

A tall, tanned man with a broad, genuine smile approaches one day while he's following the man, from enough of a distance that he hasn't been noticed yet. He's never thought of his blond bond as short, but the newcomer towers over him by almost a foot. He creeps forward, and hears the greeting exchange. 

 

“Andrew! It's so wonderful to see you again at last!” 

 

And finally,  _ finally _ , he has a name to call this man. 

 

“Good to see you too, Nicky,” Andrew says, but his voice is so tonelessly emotionless that it sounds like a lie. He's followed Andrew long enough to know that it is a lie. He's happy to see this Nicky. He just doesn't want to be. He's also currently tearing another doughnut into small, bite-size chunks despite the glaze coating his fingers. He wonders how Andrew stays so thin, when he doesn't seem to eat real food. 

 

“I brought those books you wanted,” Nicky says cheerfully. He's digging through the bag he carries and produces two volumes. Drifting nearer, he sees that the titles are  _ Living with the Occult _ and  _ The Spirit Within You. _ It's...an odd selection. Almost as if Nicky can sense him too, the newcomer continues speaking. “So, you're really being haunted? And you  _ don't  _ want an exorcism?” 

 

Haunted is that word he doesn't like.  _ Exorcism _ is a word he doesn't know. Almost against his will, he's tugged into the void. He finds himself in the hospital again, looking down at the slumbering body. He's overheard enough to know that the person in the bed was in a car accident, has no name, and is in a coma. The soothing rhythm of the heart monitor steadies him. Dark hair is still tumbled across the crisp white pillow, but it's been long enough that it's starting to grow out. There's a reddish-brown tint to the roots. The door opens behind him, and Andrew steps into the room. 

 

It's almost as if he doesn't see him this time, although he can sense Andrew's heat pouring off him. Like a moth to the flame, it draws him nearer. Andrew pulls the dying rose out of the hand of the comatose boy, and chucks it into the rubbish bin before inserting a fresh one. 

 

“They're calling you John Doe,” Andrew informs the body. “I wish I knew your real name so I could apologize properly. I never forget anything, but I can't remember if it was my fault for not seeing you, or yours for dashing out in front of my car like that.”

 

It's the most emotion he’s ever heard in Andrew's voice, and he  _ hates _ that this dying stranger, who can't even hear him, is the recipient. 

 

“Doe and Doe,” Andrew says softly, curling lax fingers around the de-thorned stem of the rose. “Almost funny.” He doesn't laugh. Neither of them do. 

 

Andrew turns suddenly, and sees him hovering there. “Figures you'd be here too,” he mutters. 

 

He's overcome with the urge to shrug shoulders he doesn't have. Andrew seems to sense it, the way he senses everything to do with him. 

 

“Not talking today?” 

 

He wants to scream.  _ I can't! _ Doesn't Andrew understand yet? He's dead, his voice is silent forever. He looks at the boy in the bed, takes in the rose, and freezes as a memory crashes through him. 

 

_ It's the anniversary of his mother's death. Her grave is a hole hastily dug on some unnamed beach, but he always buys a rose for her birthday and deathday, even if all he's going to do is burn it. He's coming out of the florist, and thinks he sees Malcolm behind him. His reaction is pure instinct. He -- _

 

The memory cuts off. He makes an abortive motion of frustration. 

 

“Do you have a name, at least?” Andrew asks. Hazel eyes have been watching him closely. He repeats the movement. “Maybe a Ouija board,” Andrew mutters, but he doesn't think this comment is aimed at him so he ignores it. He can't remember - if he ever knew - what a Ouija board is, anyway. 

 

“Why-” he says, and startles himself badly. Andrew's head jerks up to stare at him.

 

“Why what?” 

 

_ Why are you everywhere I go? _ he wants to know, but he can't make his voice come back.

 

* * *

 

He's in Andrew's bedroom, looking down at dark blue sheets. The mattress looks comfortable, and he wonders what it would be like to lay in a real bed. He can't seem to leave the house, however, not to get back to the street, or the places Andrew frequents, or the hospital. Being an unwilling roommate, he's not about to push where he's not wanted, however. Andrew had helpfully left one of his new books open to a page on exorcism, and he'd figured out what it meant. He doesn't want to force Andrew to make him leave. He doesn't know what might be waiting for him on the other side of the void. Andrew is patently not religious, but he's still alive. And if there is a heaven, he's sure Andrew will get in. He may have run some poor boy over with his car, but he takes the time to visit him in the hospital and bring him flowers. The karma must balance out on the side of goodness. Especially when the fact that he's read ten different books on living with ghosts, and the afterlife, and spiritualism - instead of exorcising him and moving in with his life. 

 

He knows Andrew better than he's ever known anyone. 

 

As if his thoughts have summoned him, Andrew appears silently in the door, a rectangular box clutched under one arm. 

 

“Something wrong with my bed, Goldilocks?” 

 

He doesn't understand the reference, but he takes the hint and backs off, leaving the room. Andrew follows him, settling himself on the floor in his living room. He watches curiously, wondering what Andrew is up to now. Opening the box, Andrew removes a folded bit of cardboard, and a small wooden disk. The board, unfolded, has a series of letters and numbers written across it in an overwrought, melodramatic font. 

 

“I'll ask questions, you move the planchette and spell out your answers,” Andrew tells him. Curiously, he tries to touch the planchette, and it skitters away from him. Andrew puts his fingers on it, and this time, when he reaches out, it slides smoothly across the board. 

 

He plays with it a moment, getting used to the feeling, and then slides it over to the “Yes” in one corner. 

 

There's an expression on Andrew's face that he might call a smile, if he didn't know Andrew so well. 

 

“What's your name?” Andrew asks. 

 

He thinks about it, but is still coming up blank. 'i don't know’, he spells out, painstakingly. 

 

“Why are you following me around?” 

 

‘not’

 

“You are.” 

 

‘not’ he repeats. ‘you. everywhere I go.’ 

 

Andrew hums. He pushes the planchette around randomly, liking the way it slides so easily. “Stop that,” Andrew demands. 

 

‘fuck you’

 

To his complete astonishment, this startles a laugh out of Andrew. He takes his hand off the planchette, which means the next time he pushes it, it goes flying. He's able to retrieve it, however. He's feeling energised now. 

 

“Huh,” Andrew murmurs, staring through him. “Blue.” 

 

He dissolves in undefined terror, but can't leave the house. He hits some kind of wall, and bounces back.  _ Blue. _ Frozen chips of sapphire ice in his father's face, set deeply above a terrible grin as his father puts a knife into his hand.  _ Blue. _ The color of his mother's lips after she bled to death in the passenger seat of a shitty car. 

 

He strikes the wall again, and feels something break. Without looking back at Andrew, he slides through the cracks of reality and disperses into the void. 

 

* * *

 

He feels heavy. He knows time has passed since he fled Andrew's house in fear, but not how much. His chest hurts. There's a bass drum pounding beside his ear. A shrieking beats in time with the drum. 

 

Beneath the cacophony, he hears the soft, gruff tones of Andrew's familiar voice. Feeling like he's struggling to swim through molasses, he pulls himself out of the dark, and sees Andrew. 

 

It feels like he's seeing him for the first time. 

 

Andrew looks like he's never seen him, either. His eyes are comically wide, and his jaw is hanging loose. 

 

_ Nathani- “ _ Neil.” 

 

This time, when he hears his voice, he also feels his tongue move. His lips part; he _ has _ lips. 

 

With a Herculean effort, he raises one hand and looks at it. There are wires and tubes attached to him. His fingers tremble. 

 

“Your name is Neil?” 

 

He looks up into endless hazel eyes, and thinks about all the things he knows about Andrew. “It is now,” he says, and his voice is rusty with disuse. Andrew hit him with his car; Andrew saw that he was carrying a rose, and spent months bringing him a new one. 

 

Neil raises his other hand, unsurprised to find the flower clutched in pale fingers. “This is yours,” he says, and offers it to Andrew, who takes it absently. 

 

“Blue,” he murmurs. 

 

“Fuck you,” Neil tells him pleasantly. 

 

The slow smile that curves Andrew's lips is finally real.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... I get really bored on the bus to and from work. 
> 
> Then I write things like this.


End file.
